Not that we're counting down the days until our imminent departure for Radar or anything, but when we woke up this morning and carved another X into the wall, we came to a realization that was both full of heartbreaking nostalgia and Cock-arousing joy: Today is my penultimate Fucking Thursday here!
Fucking Thursdays, you'll recall, are the way we refer to the worst day of the week, when news is extra-slow and we have to resort to incredibly thin premises to meet our quotas.
Ah, the memories: That time we wouldn't buy the rights to a picture of Angelina Jolie, so we took a picture of it on my computer instead. (We pay tribute to it above with a picture of this very post with that picture of a picture!) The day we put Choire in punctuation rehab. Our menstuating zombie movie. This senseless tribute to Willard Scott. Our IM with Jesus. Each one its own special little snowflake, a valentine we hold pressed to our chest, an indelible part of our legacy here at Gawker. We're a little emotional, but we're wishing ourselves a Happy 64th Fucking Thursday. Our week won't be the same without it. And THANK FUCKING GOD.